


bespredel

by maledictus



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: CIA Agent Alfred Jones, M/M, Multi, SVR RF Agent Ivan Braginsky, and russia and america are on the brink of nuclear war, and there's lots of sex and violence, but it's a Slow Burn™, in which all the countries are elite agents, modern spy au, spies and handlers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledictus/pseuds/maledictus
Summary: "If anyone can stop the world from teetering on the edge of nuclear war, it is you and your CIA, Monsieur Jones."





	1. London, England: 12:00 hours.

**Author's Note:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

"Wake up, Jones."

He stirs, but he doesn’t rise; the only thing that does is his middle finger, pointed squarely in the direction of his handler.

"...fuck off, Sanders."

There's a sigh from the doorway, followed by brisk footfalls made by clearly expensive loafers; the blankets are yanked away, and Alfred curls in on himself, brow furrowed in irritation, tanned frame suddenly chilly and exposed under the midday London sunlight. His head is pounding, and there's the distinct taste of something metallic in the back of his throat.

"What part of _'fuck off'_ don't you understand?”

"The part where _you_ get to tell that to _me_." Sanders' tone leaves no room for argument, though there's something warm and teasing beneath the bravado. "Get up; your train leaves in half an hour. If you're late, you'll miss your rendezvous with Monsieur Bonnefoy."

_Fuck!_

Alfred flies out of bed, fumbling around on the nightstand for his glasses and shoving them onto his nose before haphazardly tossing on the popover shirt and khakis offered to him by his handler. "Fucking shit, Sanders; why didn’t you wake me sooner?"

The short brunet gives him a wry smile as he steps closer and carefully fixes his agent's collar. "I thought you could use some more time to recuperate. You were an embarrassment to the CIA last night."

Alfred's smile clearly reads 'fuck off' and 'thank you' at the same time. "The CIA can blow me," he replies good-naturedly, still smiling as he pulls his blazer over his well-built torso. Sanders is unfazed, reaching up to smooth out Alfred’s pocket square with deft fingers.

"Shall I forward that to the director along with your report?"

"You know it." Alfred slips on his loafers and takes a few moments to swipe a comb through his tousled blond hair, aggravated that his damn cowlick wouldn't lie flat. His mouth is dry, his stomach is sore, his head aches fiercely, and he reeks of the aftermath of a night at a London pub. _What is this French asshole going to think of me?_ Oh well, nothing to be done about it now. Nothing except-...

As if reading his agent's mind, Sanders presents him with a tray of scones and his usual cappuccino — "With a double shot of espresso," he says with a quirk of his brow and a teasing twist of his lips. _Bless this wonderful man_ , Alfred thinks as he quickly stuffs an entire scone in his mouth and mutters something like 'thank you'. Scones aren't his favorite, but the coffee more than makes up for it.

His handler then gives him his briefcase and tucks a round-trip ticket for the Chunnel and five hundred Euros into the inside pocket of his blazer. "Monsieur Bonnefoy will meet you at the Paris station; he likes roses, mainly red ones, and definitely not yellow ones. Make sure you address him in French until he speaks to you in English. Once he has handed off the map to you, spend three hours in the Louvre before getting back on the Chunnel. Ignore the Mona Lisa, and pick up a copy of Trois maîtres du dessin."

It was all part of their well-choreographed dance of deceit: flowers, an unspoken communication of intent and trust; spending time loitering in Paris to throw off any curious minds at customs and the train station; ignore the Mona Lisa to avoid his tail, who will expect him at the most popular exhibits. Alfred nods wordlessly at each seemingly-inane statement until the last, which earns his handler a frown and a curious head tilt. "The fuck do I need that last thing for?"

"It’s for our anniversary! Molly loves art books." Sanders flushes, and Alfred beams.

"Only you would spend company money on a gift for your wife, Sanders; you dog, you."

"Shut up and get out of my sight, Jones." In spite of his tone, his handler is smiling as he ushers the agent out the door. "I have to do a lot of cleaning up from your fiasco last night. Be back by o-nine-hundred tomorrow or I'll fly back to DC without you."

He hesitates, grabs his agent's arm, looks up at him with earnest blue eyes. "…and be careful, Freddie."

"Kiss my ass, Jimmy. And you know I will."

With a brilliant grin, Alfred Jones disappears down the stairs and out into the busy London afternoon, and Sanders hates to see him go, but he loves to watch him leave.


	2. Moscow, Russia: 0600 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

"Dobroye utro, comrade Braginsky."

"Stop it with the 'comrade' nonsense, Sokolov. This is not the Soviet Union."

The response Ivan gets is bone-dry, as always: "In these tense times, this surprises me." The much larger man can't help but agree, though he keeps his thoughts to himself. Russia has been cast in a poor light in recent years, and his own actions haven't done anything to change that image.

His handler continues, an austere look in his grey eyes: "Your contact in Paris would like you there today; I have purchased you a round-trip ticket from Sheremetyevo to Charles de Gaulle, and your flight leaves in two hours. You have a week to obtain the information we need, by any means necessary, and if you do not by the time you are due to return-..."

_Everything about Vitaly is grey,_ Ivan thinks absently; he is halfway listening, carefully making mental notes and maps and plotting out rendezvous points and escape routes, though he doubts he'll need any. He's been to Paris several times; he is thoroughly unconcerned about this latest trip.

"...I am down here, Braginsky."

He redirects his ice purple gaze from the opulent ceiling of the office down to the smaller man, his placid expression hiding his ire at being handled like a child.

"I am listening, Sokolov. Do not strain yourself so hard — you may have a stroke.”

There's the thump of an incensed fist against his chest, but it barely registers; Ivan is far too bulky for a little man like Sokolov to budge. "Listen to me and do as I say, or I will report you to the Kremlin for insubordination. This is important, and it involves everything you have been trained for."

Ivan straightens up to his full (considerable) height, arms like steel girders where he holds them behind his back: his handler has one hundred percent of his attention now.

"Your contact says that the CIA has sent a man to Paris. If this is the case, you will also have a target."

The hulking Russian's eyes gleam. _The CIA, sticking its nose into Europe's business again,_ he thinks somewhat gleefully. _Oh, Vitaly knows just how to grind my gears._

"Otlichno,” he replies, suddenly much more excited to be going to Paris.

Sokolov gives a strained grunt in response. "Otlichno. I have packed your bags and left you your tickets and one hundred thousand rubles, along with your usual allowance. You have a week; what you do in that week is up to you, but you must make it worth our while, Braginsky. We cannot afford another incident like the one in Warsaw."

Ivan nods wordlessly. He's too busy thinking about cornering that CIA agent and dashing his brains against the cobblestones. He turns to leave, footfalls soft on the plush carpet of his handler's office, and is rounded on by Sokolov once more.

"“Remember, Braginsky," the older man adds with a dark tone in his usually even voice, "when you dispose of him, do not leave any traces."

Ivan grins, and the temperature in the room drops by several degrees.

Sokolov watches as his agent shoulders past him and ducks out of his office, then sits in his armchair and pushes his spectacles up on his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb; _I pity the fool who crosses his path._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation of russian:  
> dobroye utro (доброе утро) — good morning.  
> otlichno (отлично) — excellent.


	3. Paris, France: 0400 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

_Paris never changes,_ Alfred thinks to himself: the same enchanting lights, the same cigarette-stained air, the same tourists snapping pictures of every single fucking thing. In this moment, he is ashamed to be American.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Jones!" And that must be Bonnefoy, waving him over and being completely and utterly conspicuous. Fortunately, being a spy in plain sight was Alfred’s number one skill; he returns the wave and makes his way through the sea of people, keeping his precious briefcase close to his chest. _If I lose this again, Sanders will have my balls._

"Bonjour, mon ami. Comment allez-vous?"

"Oui, your French is good! I expected much worse." Bonnefoy is tall and trim, with just enough stubble to be considered handsome and exquisite blond locks that would make a runway model jealous. Alfred knows his surprise is written all over his face, so he doesn’t bother to hide it. Instead, he gives Bonnefoy a quick once-over with an experienced eye, checking for any signs of bugs or wires. This was a sudden and unforeseen turn of events.

"English so soon?"

"Oui." His contact gestures for him to walk with him, and Alfred falls into step beside the Frenchman; he maintains his even, casual nonchalance until Bonnefoy tilts his head to the side and mutters to him: "You are being watched. It is best that we make this quick, non?"

 _Well, I guess I won’t be needing the roses._  "By whom?" Ice forms in the pit of his gut, but he can’t deny the thrill that courses through his veins. Being an information ferry wasn’t what he was trained for, after all: that was Sanders’ job. Alfred had been trained for the work of James Bond, albeit swapping out the posh British accent and the lascivious womanizing for a foul mouth and a deep love of junk food and hand-to-hand combat. The lavish lifestyle and the briefcase full of tricks remained, however.

Bonnefoy only has to mutter one word to get Alfred’s blood singing: "Russia." His contact walks with steady confidence and gives off a casual air like every other Frenchman on the street, but in his deep blue eyes, he looks decidedly uncomfortable. "The SVR-RF has sent in an agent per the request of my agency, for France to appear neutral. Je suis désolé, mon ami: it was not my doing.

"But do not worry: it is a ruse. Your CIA will be receiving the honest-to-goodness map and coordinates, while Russia will receive a fake." Bonnefoy’s abject discomfort has eased into something akin to nervous triumph, a small, almost imperceptible smile on his face. "Historically, our nations have gotten along poorly, with America being the golden prodigal son we are so proud of. If anyone can stop the world from teetering on the edge of nuclear war, it is you and your CIA, Monsieur Jones."

On second thought, maybe he’ll be needing the roses after all. Alfred grins, breaking his façade of professional calm for a split second. “Call me Alfred. And I thought all Frenchmen were supposed to be cowards."

"An unfortunate stereotype, Alfred; nothing more. Come, we must be quick. Allons-y."

The mid-afternoon Paris sun beats down on them as they make their way down the Champs-Élysées, making small talk in an effort to blend in with the tourists and beleaguered Frenchmen around them. Bonnefoy, whose name Alfred has learned is Francis (a Frenchman named Francis, how goddamn predictable), steps into a quiet café and sweeps it for anyone or anything unsavory before beckoning the CIA agent in after him and securing a small table towards the back of the shop. "This will be a safe enough place to do the exchange," he mutters in a low tone, positioning his back to the glass storefront before producing a small floppy disk from the pocket of his pea coat. Alfred raises a brow.

"...really?"

"Old technology, I know; but it will ascertain it is overlooked. The Russian will be looking for a USB drive. I trust your CIA can convert it?"

Alfred nods, the explanation good enough for him. He’s quick to take the floppy disk, though he places it inside his hidden coat pocket, close to his chest, rather than in his briefcase; losing this would end his career, and he doesn’t trust that the case won’t be searched. Better to be safe than sorry.

"Très bien." Francis seems relieved to have the information out of his hands. "Now, we must not leave together; you like coffee, non? I highly recommend the café au lait here. Take it to go, and go to the Louvre; your handler said you had business there?"

"Yeah. Can’t get back on the train so soon."

"Of course. Keep a sharp eye out for that Russian; apparently, he is very, very tall." Francis is silent for a long while, before extending a hand to shake and giving the American a genuine smile. "It was lovely to finally meet you, mon ami. I wish you luck."

"Merci, Francis."

Alfred orders the recommended café au lait and flirts with the barista for a few moments before vanishing from the shop. Francis takes a moment to relax and calm his nerves; he has a long journey back to the Eiffel tower for his next meeting, one that is sure to be much less easygoing than this first one. _Damn the state of the world; I need a drink._

Just as he gets up to leave for the nearest restaurant for a nice bottle of wine and some escargot, he catches sight of something left behind on Alfred’s chair — a single red rose in full bloom, with ‘merci’ scrawled on the tag hanging from the stem.

What a curious American.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation of french:  
> Bonjour, mon ami. Comment allez-vous? — Hello, my friend. How are you?  
> Je suis désolé — I'm very sorry.  
> Allons-y — Let's go.  
> Très bien — Very good.


	4. Paris, France: 0500 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

"I see you had a visitor, Francis."

The Frenchman nearly chokes on the escargot he had carefully prized out of its shell. He doesn’t dare look up; he can already tell from the man's accent that his next meeting will be beginning much earlier than he anticipated. _How did the SVR RF know where he would be?_

"...oui." He composes himself quickly – he has to. Any hesitation will give him away. "He's an old friend from Bretagne. We were catching up over coffee before my meeting with you; I didn't expect you so soon, Monsieur Braginsky."

" _You are lying._ "

A lump forms in Francis' throat and he swallows against it, hoping he can put it off on the escargot's garlicky flavor. _This one is perceptive,_ he thinks to himself as he steals a glance up at his distinctly Slavic guest; and immediately, his heart is quailing in his chest. He's massively tall, the crown of his shaggy platinum blond hair almost seven feet off the ground; he has a pleasant smile on his face, though his oddly-colored eyes contain nothing but malice. _Hunger. The look of a cannibal._

The hulking Russian sits, making himself surprisingly small in the chair. "May I?" he asks as he gestures to the bottle of Merlot, though his tone leaves no room for Francis to say no. The Frenchman nods wordlessly and busies his trembling hands prying another mollusk out of its shell as Braginsky pours himself half a glass of wine and takes a sip of it. "Your friend from Bretagne has a strange accent: one might almost be tempted to call it _American_."

Francis feels the color drain from his cheeks. _Maybe I should have lied to Monsieur Jones instead._

"W-well, he's spent some time abroad-..."

"Do not continue to lie to me, Monsieur Bonnefoy." The Russian's tone is light and casual but sends a bolt of fear straight to Francis' heart. "You and I both know he is American."

Silence. The Frenchman and the Russian maintain eye contact, Francis too afraid to look away, Ivan taking pleasure in watching his prey _squirm_. The Slav takes a long, slow drink of his wine, never once looking away from the slender man across the table; when Ivan speaks again, it is low, soft and even, without a hint of questioning.

"...you gave him the coordinates to our nuclear headquarters."

"...oui." There's no point in lying now; Monsieur Braginsky can see right through him. Like the agent sitting across from him, Francis maintains his calm composure to hide the grievousness of their conversation from the patrons around them; but inside, he's screaming. "I had no choice. I am merely doing as my boss tells me. Je suis désolé, monsieur."

"Save your apology for your CIA friend, Francis." The Russian stands quickly but fluidly so as not to draw attention to himself; his objective has changed from information gathering to hunting, both his lost coordinates and the American possessing them, and he is eager not to dawdle. "I will have to pay him a visit; and when I return, I will exact your punishment for this humiliation from your flesh. You will be seeing me again very, very soon. Au revoir pour le moment, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

Ivan turns on his heel and exits the restaurant, glancing up and down the Champs-Élysées for any sign of the tall blond he'd seen leaving the café. _Chert, I have lost him; he could be anywhere in all of Paris,_ he thinks with a sour expression. He would have loved to take care of Bonnefoy first, but retrieving his lost information was a much higher priority than spilling the Frenchman's blood. He can feel his heart thudding frantically against the girders of his ribcage, can hear the blood pulsing through his ears: if he loses this information, he will lose his career, and Russia will be defenseless.

And his sisters…

_Calm down, Braginsky,_ he tells himself. _Move your feet._ And he does, his long strides taking him rapidly up the Champs-Élysées. _Think: if you had highly sensitive intel regarding the enemy's ability to go to war, when and where would you take it?_

_Home. Immediately._

He yanks his phone out of his pocket and quickly calls his handler. He hears the older man's gravelly voice give a nondescript greeting: "Sokolov."

"Book me a flight to Washington DC immediately."

"Chto? Why?" Sokolov sounds a mix between surprised and murderously irate.

"France has betrayed us, and I have to go on a foxhunt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation of french:  
> Je suis désolé — I'm very sorry.  
> Au revoir pour le moment — goodbye for the moment.
> 
> translation of russian:  
> chert (черт) — damn.  
> chto? (что?) — what?


	5. New York City, USA: 1500 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

"Dude, I still can't get over it; I mean, I thought I was gonna get _half_ the raise I got!"

From over the phone, Alfred can practically hear Sanders pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, you've said so many times, Jones."

The agent gives an indignant snort as he weaves through the dense throng of pedestrians. He glances down at his phone to make sure Sanders hasn't hung up on him; he's such a buzzkill sometimes that it takes all of Alfred's self-control not to click the button on his earpiece and hang up first.

"Hey man, can't a guy get excited about his income? My old man woulda killed to be making this amount of money at twenty five."

"Yes, yes, you're definitely young for the one percent, Jones." Sanders sounds about as invigorated as a dead man. Alfred can hear the soft rustling of laminated pages on the other end of the line and immediately, he goes from frowning to smiling.

"Hi, Molly. Don't listen to a word he says: that book is from _me._ "

She giggles.

"Always so perceptive, Foster. It's wonderful; thank you very much."

Man, when will that woman stop calling him by his middle name? If it wasn't so endearing, Alfred just might say something. He can tell that Sanders is rolling his eyes, and that only makes him grin wider. "Of course; happy anniversary."

The light changes and allows the pedestrians to cross the street, and Alfred steps out onto the crosswalk that stretches the width of Broadway, picking up his pace to make it across ahead of the crowd. He hates Manhattan; _there are way too many people,_ he thinks with a long, slow draw of the city air. Everything reeks of gasoline and asphalt and cigarettes and coffee — all familiar smells that he's grown to love, though he'd prefer to be smelling them from the open window of his Brooklyn brownstone than the middle of the most famous street in Manhattan. But it's his first day of his week off, and he'll be damned to spend it without blowing a little bit of money; and as densely populated as it is, Manhattan is the best place to shop. Worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth, the agent shoves his highly reflective aviators back up on his nose and returns his attention back to the chatting couple on the other end of the phone.

"Hey, I should probably go; I'm about to blow half my paycheck on booze and hookers. Have a nice week off, Jimmy."

There's a beleaguered sigh from the speaker. Thank fuck Sanders understands his sense of humor.

"You too, Freddie. Stay on your toes."

Alfred hangs up just as an intriguing sound filters out of the shop a few paces ahead of him — _is that piano music?_ he asks himself as he grabs the old brass knob and shoves the door open with some effort. It's a sound he almost never hears outside of Vienna and Warsaw; to hear it in the middle of an antiques shop in Manhattan is incredibly odd...odd enough to pique his curiosity. The store itself is old, but Alfred is convinced that the shopkeeper is older: he putters along behind the counter and hums completely out of tune to himself, clearly unaware of the piano being played just beyond the foyer. The agent can tell from the sound that the piano, too, must be ancient — the strings have a strained, tinny, unused sound to them, a far cry from the richness of the grand piano played by his contact in Poland. But whoever is playing this one is an expert, definitely not just a curious guest haphazardly pounding on a key or two; awash with interest, Alfred makes his way past the various timeworn curios and tchotchkes and peers around the corner and into the other room of the shop.

Sitting with his back to him at the piano bench is perhaps the biggest man he's ever seen — not heavy or overweight, just immensely tall, with shoulders broader than Alfred thought possible. Though perhaps more striking than his size is his hair: platinum blond, a color rarely seen outside of Scandinavia and Eastern Europe. He's dressed in a deep grey cardigan and blue jeans, with a tremendously long cream-colored scarf brushing the floor at his feet, and his scuffed ankle boots work the tarnished pedals of the piano with what could only be years of practice. His fingers are long and slender, almost a blur as they dance over the keys with such precision that Alfred is immediately able to recognize the complex song.

"...is that Glinka?" he asks softly, pulling his aviators down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at the talented man at the piano. As if knowing he was being observed, he turns and gives Alfred a polite smile.

"Da, it is. My great grandfather knew him personally. It is nice to meet an American who recognizes his work."

Immediately, ice forms in the pit of Alfred's stomach: _a Russian, and a tall one at that._ Francis' words bounce around in his head like an angry wasp, and Alfred has to inhale sharply through his nose to calm his racing pulse. _Easy, rock star; don't act rashly. There are tons of Russians here in Manhattan — what are the odds that this one is the agent stalking you? You probably left that guy behind in Paris; Francis said he had your back, so don't act like a prick. This guy just happens to be from the country we're potentially going to war with: that doesn't make him a criminal._

_And besides, he's pretty cute._

He's clearly young, perhaps a few years Alfred's senior, with a boyish face and a positively disarming smile that's somewhat shy at the edges. And his eyes...Alfred's never seen any like them; they're such a deep shade of blue that they're almost violet. What's more, they seem to see right through him, meeting his cerulean gaze over the edge of his aviators without an ounce of reservation. It's as if those eyes have known him his whole life — it's almost unnerving, if it weren't so tantalizing.

But Alfred Foster Jones doesn't shy away from a challenge: he takes a few steps forward and extends a hand for the other to shake. "Call me Alfred. I'm not exactly a piano connoisseur, but I've been to see The Nutcracker enough times to know that isn't Tchaikovsky. You're incredibly talented."

"Spasiba. You can call me Vanya." The Russian dips his head in a polite greeting and takes the proffered hand. _What the fuck kind of name is Vanya?_ Alfred asks himself with a grin. _I'll have to ask Jimmy later. And sweet fuck, is this guy strong._ The American can feel the raw power in Vanya's fingers as he shakes his hand, holding their contact for perhaps a bit too long before releasing his grip.

"Nice to meet you, Vanya. You must have a pretty awesome piano at your pad to be able to play like that."

The Russian hesitates.

"Nyet, not here: I do have one at home, and it is awesome. My sisters keep it safe for me, at least until I can bring it - and them - here to live with me."

"...and where is home?" Alfred asks, watching the Slav with curious, almost sympathetic, blue eyes. _Man...sounds like the war will be harder on them than it will be on us._

Vanya laughs, a high, clear sound that reverberates to the ceiling. "Russia, of course: Omsk, Russia. There is a Concert Grand waiting for me there."

He's quiet then, reaching back to brush his fingers over the keys in an almost loving manner, something like nostalgia in his strange blue-purple eyes. Before Alfred can press further, the Russian clicks his tongue against his teeth and stands, and _holy fuck, he's so tall it's unreal_.

"I am afraid I must be off. It has been a pleasure, Alfred. Do svidaniya."

Alfred remains silent as Vanya once again dips his head and brushes past him; he smells markedly of chervil and tarragon and parsley, all spices he's come to learn are common in Slavic cooking. _Why the fuck am I noticing what the bastard smells like?_ he asks himself, turning and watching the Russian bend to avoid knocking his head on the door frame of the shop; he disappears out into the crowd, though he doesn't vanish completely — he's a head taller than everyone else on the street. Amazing.

_Remember that smell: trust your instincts._

As soon as that pop of platinum disappears down the sidewalk, Alfred has his phone in his hand; Sanders will be angry with him for calling mere minutes after hanging up, but this is of utmost importance.

"What the hell do you want, Jones?" Oh yeah, he's pissed. _Big fucking deal._

"Sanders, I need you to do a sweep of all the Russian families and immigrants in New York City. If you get a hit on a guy named Vanya, call me back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the song ivan is playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxlf-ZmE8JI).
> 
> translation of russian:  
> до свидания (do svidaniya) — goodbye (for now).


	6. New York City, USA: 0900 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> беспредел (bes-pre-'del) — without limits or boundaries. chaotic violence. lawlessness.

The phone goes off, and Alfred picks it up on the first ring. His heart thuds against his ribs.

"What'd you find out?"

"That you're overreacting, for starters." Sanders sounds pissed. "You live in fucking _Brooklyn_ , Jones. Are you unaware that the largest population of Russians in America lives right there with you?"

Alfred makes a face, feeling more than a bit humiliated. "I know that, Sanders. But this guy...something's different about him. Something about him trips my trigger." _In more ways than one._ He can practically hear his handler rolling his eyes on the other end of the line.

"If you want to bed him, I hear that sunflowers are a good way to make that proposition. Did you seriously bug me on my day off and have me use CIA technology to find you a date?"

"Take me seriously, Sanders!" Alfred definitely isn't blushing, not even a little bit. "We're teetering on the edge of a goddamn nuclear war with Russia and I'm being stalked by a SVR RF agent because I've got my hands on critical intel, and you think that all I wanna do is get my dick wet?"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

_Damn it. Seriously, fuck this guy._

"...you're only half wrong." His handler called his bluff. Uncomfortable, Alfred clears his throat as Sanders chuckles in his ear. "But I swear, this guy's trouble. How many Vanyas were you able to search up?"

"Vanya is the diminutive form of Ivan, one of the most common male Russian names; there are literally hundreds of thousands of Ivans in the States. You aren't giving me a lot of information to go off of, Jones: I need more if I'm going to find mister Tall, Drunk, and Pale for you." Alfred can hear the faint but rapid clicking of keyboard keys. In spite of his tone, at least it seems like Sanders is taking things more seriously now.

"Well, he's definitely two of those things." The agent's brows furrow as he conjures up the image of the man playing the piano in the antique shop. "He's pale all over, even his hair. I think it's platinum. And fuck, dude, he's so damn tall...at least seven feet. Francis told me that the agent following me was massive, and this guy totally is."

"Right, so you want to date the ghost of a tsar, then?" He hears his handler laugh, but he also hears his fingers mercilessly tapping away at the keys.

"Fuck you, Sanders. This is about my potential SVR RF stalker, remember?" Still, he's smiling.

"Not just your potential one night stand from Moscow. Duly noted, Jones. Anything else about this mystery man I should know?"

"He's from Omsk, not Moscow." Alfred pointedly ignores Sanders' dry jab and continues wracking his brain for useful information, chewing at the end of a pen that he'd taken out of his pocket to write down any information his handler comes up with. A prickle of fear darts up his spine and makes the hairs at the base of his skull stand on end: he's hit on the memory of Vanya's piercing eyes gazing at him, like a predator watching his prey...

"Yeah. Yeah, his eyes are weird. They're like...violet, or something. Like so dark blue they're purple."

Sanders doesn't say anything to that; he merely clicks quickly at his keys, and Alfred can tell he's given him something valuable. Sanders isn't the silent type until he gets engrossed in his work.

"One Ivan Antonovich Braginsky: seven foot four, platinum blond hair, violet eyes. It says here that he's directly descended from the Romanov family...wow, a Russian celebrity on American soil. I wonder what made him leave the motherland?"

Sanders falls silent after that; there are a few somewhat aggressive taps to his keys. Alfred lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding; so his name is Braginsky, huh? Ivan Braginsky.

Sanders' voice in his ear pulls him from his thoughts. "There's nothing tying him to the SVR RF, but you and I both know that means nothing. If we could just see who they had on their staff, they wouldn't be the second best secret service in the world, would they?"

"Just tell me where he lives, Sanders. I'll get to the bottom of all that in time."

"Damn, someone's eager." The merciless teasing never stops. "He has a two-bedroom in the Oceana condominiums. You'd better hope he's not married; he's probably making better money than you if he lives there."

"Again, fuck you, Sanders. And thanks." _I'll send you some flowers. And maybe a marital aid for your wife, you sexless son of a bitch._

"Noted. Just be careful, Freddie."

* * *

The breeze coming in through the open balcony door smells distinctly of carnival food and seafoam; Ivan isn't quite used to it, but it is certainly intriguing to him. _At least the sea is familiar_ , he thinks to himself as his fingers dance over the keys of his baby grand; both of these are the only things that soothe him as of late.

The American is on his mind constantly; oh, how he wants to break into his apartment (number B21, 365 Bond Street — _how fitting_ ) and _utterly destroy_ him. Unfortunately, his stolen intel was no longer in the hands of Alfred Foster Jones: no, the boy had already turned it over to the CIA, and had earned himself a raise and a week off, things Ivan could only dream of. Killing Alfred will do nothing for him now, nothing except temporarily sate his bloodlust and soothe his nerves — the American is much more valuable alive than dead at this point, much to Ivan's chagrin. Even more unfortunately, the easiest way to get that intel back was a _mutual benefits_ situation: his little excursion has gone from a short-term retrieval mission to long-term seduction and sabotage: a _Chernaya Vdova_ mission, as Sokolov had so wonderfully put it.

And Ivan is tired.

He abuses his piano with Val's-Fantaziya, pressing a bit too hard on the keys to coax more sound from the strings. He does not miss Russia; he does not miss Sokolov's dispassionate face or his monotone lectures; he does not miss the ice or the snow or the Siberian cold...but he does miss his sisters. He misses Katya's warm hugs, her kisses to the crown of his head, the motherly way she adjusted the scarf around his neck. He misses Natalya's delicious traditional cooking and her singing accompanying his piano; he even misses her vicious possessiveness of him. _At least I still have this,_ he thinks as he reaches the crescendo of the composition: _this and the sea._

_And Alfred. I suppose I have him, too._

There had been no happenstance in their meeting; everything had been planned, meticulously coordinated to place Ivan in that little shop just as the American was set to walk by. It had been no unfortunate oversight or juvenile mistake that Ivan had given his own name; if Alfred was intrigued enough, he would use what little information he had to find his new Russian acquaintance, proving his CIA connections beyond the shadow of a doubt. Ivan would be lying if he told himself he hoped Alfred wouldn't do that exact thing: he was, after all, intelligent and talented and incredibly handsome, clearly an expert agent and a social butterfly, and also clearly very, very gay. _God forbid we ever come to blows...of more than one kind._

And then, as if on cue, there's a knock at his door.

"I know that's you in there, Vanya!"

_Logok na pomine._

He pushes back from his piano and makes for the door, attempting to look surprised as he pulls it open and finds Alfred on the other side, grinning cheekily and holding a brown paper bag behind his back. The sudden urge to shove him back against the wall and choke the life out of him mingles with the compulsion to pull him inside and make him his equal. The breath catches in Ivan's scarred throat; this is one of those times he's grateful he's not in Russia.

"Ah, Alfred. How-...how did you manage to find my home?" His tone sounds astonished, though the farce doesn't quite reach his eyes. _You cannot kill him, Antonovich: you cannot kill him, but you can take him to bed, at least until he gives you what you need to know. Then you can kill him._

"I was just passing through the neighborhood and I heard Glinka. I knew it had to be you." Alfred shrugs nonchalantly, and those brilliant blue eyes drift past Ivan and into his home. "Was that just a recording, or were you actually playing? I thought you said you didn't have a piano here!"

"Mmm, I said I had a concert grand waiting for me in Omsk; but I do have a baby grand here. Please, come in." Ivan stands aside and gestures inside, watching the boisterous blond breeze past him and into the foyer. The Russian closes the door and locks it almost imperceptibly, content at the feeling that he's sealed his prey into his trap. Now to get to work.

"Dude, your pad is awesome." Alfred has wandered off, and Ivan allows him, placing his sizable bulk in the door to his bedroom to keep the nosy American from finding his way in there. _Not yet; as nice as that would be,_ he thinks with a shiver that goes unnoticed beneath his cardigan, _I do not need him knowing all of my secrets. Not yet._

"Spasiba."

"Man, you must have a kickass job to afford to live here. What's the rent like?"

Ivan laughs. "That is hardly how to go about getting to know someone, Alfred."

Alfred looks sheepish; he fidgets, his cerulean eyes looking somewhat apologetic before he seems to remember that he'd brought something along.

"Oh yeah, I brought you something! It's sort of an 'I know this is awkward and I'm sorry for just showing up at your house' gift, I guess." He offers the bag to the Russian, and Ivan takes it with a raised brow, curiosity sparkling in his violet eyes. _He's very forward; it's endearing. I'm going to love cleaning his brains off my wall._ But who is he trying to convince of that? Sokolov? Or himself?

When he sees the bottle, something clenches in his chest, something near where his heart should be. "Tovarich! Where did you find this?" He shouldn't be so excited, but blyat, this is one of the best vodkas around.

"Hey, man: if it exists, you can find it in New York." The wink Alfred gives him is positively sinful. _This will be much harder than I thought_ , Ivan thinks as he swallows past the lump in his throat. In a flash, as if afraid to get too close, Alfred is gone, having disappeared out onto the balcony with an exclamation of "holy shit, this view is epic"; Ivan decides that he's going to need a drink if he's going to entertain the other agent without moving too quickly and blowing his cover, and he grabs two tumblers out of the cabinet and fills them with shaking fingers. The vodka is fantastic; he takes a long, slow drink, and it gives him enough confidence to approach his guest out on the balcony.

"You know, most people would just send flowers if they wanted to date someone." It's a risky gamble, but their little seduction game has to start somewhere. Alfred's cheeks turn a pleasant shade of pink, even as a semi-confident grin spreads out over his lips.

"Got that covered." He reaches into his messenger bag and withdraws a carefully-wrapped bouquet of sunflowers, which he offers to Ivan while doing his best to maintain eye contact. Ivan's jaw goes slack and his eyes widen, and he can't help but smile at the sight of his favorite flowers.

And then, before Ivan can inquire further, Alfred unloads: "Look, Vanya: I think you're pretty swell. You're talented, and smart, and if I can be frank, you're super handsome. I'd be lying if I said I didn't come to Brighton Beach today just to find you, because I did. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to date you, because I do. I really, really do. I know I'm American, and I know I'm obnoxious, and I'm probably not your type; and fuck, I don't even know if you're gay, but-"

"You are trying too hard, Alfred." Ivan interrupts in a low, rumbling tone, one he knows will make the American shut up and pay attention.

"Y-you're right, I'm trying too hard, I'm sorry." The crestfallen look on Alfred's face is so endearing it almost makes Ivan feel sorry for him. But he does shut up just long enough for Ivan to take a step closer and offer his guest the second glass of vodka in exchange for the flowers. The American takes a long swig; it makes him cough, and Ivan chuckles at that, burying his nose in the bouquet and inhaling the wonderful scent of sunflowers and trying not to let the moment go to his head...and his heart.

_Who is seducing whom?_

"Do not apologize." His voice is soft, almost unrecognizably low as he watches Alfred with intense eyes, the rest of his face hidden in the delicate yellow petals of his bouquet. "Da, of course I will date you; but on one condition."

Alfred looks stricken at first, and then his eyes brighten to the intensity of Canopus. "Of course! Of course; anything, just name it!"

The grin Ivan hides behind the flowers is cunning, nervous, desperate, and hungry. There are many, many things Alfred could do for him: he could confess to being a CIA pigdog on his hands and knees; he could return his stolen information and willingly put Ivan's gun in his mouth; he could denounce his country and his kin and come to Russia so they would never have to be apart. But those are heavy conditions for a first date, and Ivan wants things to last; they have to, if he's to get his intel back. After all, Sokolov and the SVR RF have his balls in a vice, and his family right along with them.

Maybe that's something Alfred could help him with. Ivan's eyes shine beneath the immaculate fringe of his platinum hair as he stares his new lover down. 

"You help me get my sisters here to America, and it will be  _me_ who will be doing anything for _you_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the song ivan is playing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6g3xwhh99-c)
> 
>  
> 
> translation of russian:  
> Chernaya Vdova (черная вдова) — black widow.  
> Logok na pomine (Лёгок на помине) — speak of the devil and he shall appear.  
> Blyat (Блядь) — fuck.


End file.
